


Human shield

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alcohol, Book 4: Pawn in Frankincense, Gen, Music, Punk Rock, crowd-surfing, crowds, mosh-pit, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Lymond is playing for one night with the hardcore punk friends of his former bandmate, Turkey Mat. It's Philippa's first punk show, and Marthe agrees to go to the front of the crowd with her.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 4
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Human shield

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, 4 October 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188124734579/ive-never-been-to-a-punk-show-before-philippa)

"I've never been to a punk show before," Philippa said, gazing towards the stage with interest.

Marthe handed her a bottle of cola and raised her own drink to her lips. "Show is the correct word. None of these fools can play their instruments, it's all about the look."

"Mr Crawford can play."

The defensive assertion was not rebuffed; Marthe just shrugged and waited for the band to come on.

They had not been able to leave New York without encountering some of Lymond's old acquaintances. The punks they were waiting to see had toured with Archie's brother when Lymond first met him. Now Lymond was to make a guest appearance on stage with them in a narrow, dark venue - that was certainly crowded beyond the capacity advised by fire regulations.

Philippa pushed up onto the balls of her feet to see over the mohawks and raised fingers of the chanting audience. Her companion eyed her curiosity with resignation.

"Do you want to go closer?"

Marthe led them on a winding route between studded leather and patched denim, and Philippa had to concentrate hard to keep up. She followed the glorious mass of blonde hair that Marthe wore piled on top of her head; the cherub tattoo on the back of her neck; her toned musician's arms revealed by a strappy tank top. Somehow she seemed to fit in everywhere, yet she stood out in a crowd.

Philippa, for once, wished she also stood out. Perhaps then the closed wall of bodies would open more easily for her and she wouldn't keep finding her jumper catching on others' metal accessories. She squeezed through, muttering apologies that couldn't be heard over the background noise, and treading on oblivious feet in steel toecaps.

She realised she had been holding her breath when they came to a halt just behind the row of people at the barrier between crowd and stage. Marthe turned to confirm she was there and then bent het knees a little to lean and speak in Philippa's ear. She pointed to the array of pedals on the stage and the models of amps, explaining what it all meant for the sound. The exotic looking guitars - cut in strange shapes and coloured like the night - had their own names and purposes that were each listed by Marthe. Philippa wondered why she knew so much about a genre of music she professed to dislike so intensely.

The stage lights flared and the room turned dark. The band's playlist faded out to be replaced by the roaring of the audience, and then a group of silhouettes moved onto the stage to take up their instruments.

Philippa blinked at the sensory input. She felt the fine hairs on her skin stand on end as the people around her inhaled, waiting for the storm. Tension passed from body to body and she became suddenly aware of how much taller those around her were.

There was no further warning as to when the band would play, but Marthe must have seen something, because she grabbed Philippa's hand just as the audience erupted into a roiling, buffeting sea of bodies. A rough voice was screaming something, the guitars hammered chords in unison, and drums clattered with ruthless pace.

All the limbs about her became weapons, elbows at head height, heavy feet stamping and the weight of others crushing down on her. Philippa held fast to Marthe's hand because it was all she could keep track of in the flailing whirlpool of people. Without knowing she did so, she grasped at jackets and shoulders around her with her free hand, fending off blows that came too close and keeping herself just about upright.

It probably lasted for less than two minutes, then the noise changed; the elbows retreated to the air as the crowd raised their arms to clap and cheer.

Shaken, her ears buzzing, Philippa looked up at Marthe with round eyes and a pale face.

"Should we go back?" Marthe yelled over the applause, a knowing sneer on her lips.

Philippa shook her head. This was Mr Crawford's world, and she had come here to understand it. To help to make up for her mistakes. And besides, now that she was adjusting to the constant battering of sound, she realised her heart was racing with adrenaline. It was a feeling like daring the local boys to jump out of trees in the orchard, or the shock of flinging yourself into the North Sea on a day out at Tynemouth.

Philippa released Marthe's hand, and she thought she noticed an impressed lift of the older woman's golden brows, but then the next song started.

She was a fast learner, and soon had the hang of it, propelling herself in pogoing jumps that used the height and momentum of those around her. She started to hear some of the lyrics, caught strains of rage and hope, and when she bounced high enough she could see Archie's bald head at the drumkit and the halo of stage lighting on blonde curls where Lymond stood. Philippa grinned and whooped cheers until her throat itched with dry ice. Her cheeks grew pink in the heat of the cascade of bodies around her, hair lank and sweaty, knitted jumper manifestly a bad idea, but why should she care? The music was so loud it seemed to buoy her up, an ocean of noise cradling her whole form.

The only remaining surprise was what happened at the end of the set - again, Marthe noticed it coming first.

Philippa was perturbed to find the other woman's hand on her head, suddenly pressing her down below the surface of the crowd. Making herself into a human shield, Marthe turned and leaned over Philippa as a shadow passed above her and the people standing nearby staggered and adjusted their movements.

It was difficult to see what happened, but Philippa felt Marthe flinch at some impact. Her chin rebounded off Philippa's head and she swore and then the darkness and pressure lifted and Marthe stood. One of her hands remained attached to a grubby sneaker as it waved above Philippa's head. Marthe shoved the foot and its attached owner, touching her other hand to a red mark on her head.

Philippa could only watch in astonishment as the person who had kicked Marthe's brow was carried away on the surface of the crowd, dozens of hands reaching up to pass his body along like an offering. A swift glance at the stage confirmed her suspicion: Lymond's guitar stood abandoned by the amps, his spot on stage empty.

The bruise on Marthe's forehead turned quickly blue.

Her expression was sour when she stood at the bar after the set, holding an ice-filled glass of rum to the swelling, and Jerott looked up long enough from his own drink to laugh.

"Never encountered crowd-surfers before?"


End file.
